


The Side of the Angels

by betts



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, BAMF!Castiel, Bottom Sherlock, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Death, Humor, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Resolved Sexual Tension, Top Castiel, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel enlists the help of Sherlock Holmes to prevent the impending apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Supernatural season 4 and Sherlock during the downtime of A Scandal in Belgravia. AU where Death didn't let Dean have his ring. Headcanons included (like some of Castiel's angelic abilities).

Sherlock Holmes dragged his bow across the strings of his violin, resonating a dramatic composition of his own. It would seem he did this absent-mindedly, but if one knew him, one knew he was never absent of mind.

While composing, he thought about his colleague, now friend and flatmate, John Watson, who had been away for quite some time. Sherlock guessed that John had been gone two days before he realized no one brought him that cuppa he'd asked for on Tuesday. Startled out of his reverie, Sherlock had begun searching the flat for clues as to John's disappearance after sending several text messages with no reply, a miniature case. Finally, he found a note on the refrigerator that said, simply, "New Zealand with Sarah, be back Sunday."

" _New Zealand?_ " Sherlock exclaimed incredulously to the skull sitting on his mantel. "Why _New Zealand_?"

Pouting, he slumped down into his sitting chair and stared into space, exasperated by John's absence.

After several hours of shoving unwanted romantic sentiments toward John into a tiny linen closet of his mind palace, he stood up and began playing his violin.

He concentrated on the notes, building a piece so complex and elegant that he had no choice but to close his eyes, stop his conscious thought and see only the music.

Finally, the piece finished in a haunting sound as thoughts of his John with his silly girlfriend crept slowly back into his mind, an inexplicable rush of jealousy and anger along with it.

"That was beautiful," said a raspy voice behind him.

A thousand thoughts flooded Sherlock's mind, among them: _male, American, Caucasian, didn't hear him enter, wasn't expecting anyone, don't know any Americans, don't recognize the voice, approximately two feet behind me, shorter, sounds... tired. Threat? Yes, probably threat._

He turned around and swung his violin at the man's head. In the split second before impact, he met the man's gaze, an intense stare of icy blue eyes, unlike Sherlock had ever seen.

 _"Note: if American men look like this, must visit America,"_ was Sherlock's thought as his precious violin crashed into the man's skull.

But it had no effect on the man. He didn't even flinch. Didn't even blink.

Sherlock blinked, stared at the man for a moment as he let the wooden shards of his violin drop from his grasp, and the 'flight' half of his fight or flight mechanism kicked in. He jumped over his sitting chair and ran toward the door.

Before he could reach the threshold, the man was standing in it.

 _Impossible_.

 "Ow," the man said, expression as grave as it had been a moment ago.

The only things that frightened Sherlock were the things he couldn't explain, and he was definitely lost about this. "Wh-" he stammered, "What..."

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Holmes." His voice was monotone and gravelly. He wore a trench coat with a wrinkled black suit underneath and a poorly tied blue necktie.

Sherlock backed into his sitting chair and fell into it, mouth agape, thoughts at a complete stand-still.

The man sat down in John's chair across from him and stared at him intently. "My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord. I came here because the apocalypse is about to occur and I need your help."

Sherlock genuinely had no response to that. Perhaps a normal person would have laughed, thought it was a joke, but those people are blind, Sherlock thought. This was obviously not a joke.

He was having a frustrating time of trying to get his brain back in motion, so he could analyze this man, determine who he was by the brand of his socks or the stain of his teeth. But nothing was happening. At any other point in his life, Sherlock would have seen this blissful mental silence as a gift, but now, when he needed his brain the most, it had fled out of his flat when he himself had been unable to.

The man, Castiel, finally broke eye contact and looked around the room awkwardly, wringing his hands together. "My apologies," he said after a time, "Dean is always telling me about _segues_ and how to appropriately enter into a conversation. I apologize for neglecting that in my urgency to discuss this matter with you. It is the apocalypse after all."

Sherlock swallowed.

"Isn't it... customary in your culture to provide guests with a hot beverage infused with herbs?"

Sherlock blinked, and realized he had yet to see this man blink a single time. Although he was smaller than Sherlock, he believed this man held immense power. An angel, though? Of the _Lord_? Rubbish.

He realized that making a cuppa would be an excellent distraction that could maybe kick his mind back into gear. "Y-yes." He got up to head toward the kitchen. "Milk and sugar?"

"Please," Castiel replied, and twisted his mouth in such a way that looked like he was only mimicking what he thought smiles looked like. It didn't reach his eyes.

Sherlock put the kettle on and composed his thoughts. Now that he had a moment of silence, his brain was going at top speed. He thought back to his history texts and various academic articles he had read on the supernatural and occult. Although he dismissed many of them as the work of less intelligent beings unable to find rational solutions to what they saw, felt, heard, and so on, a few of them seemed to be legitimate reports of findings that could simply not be explained, even by Sherlock. Reports of angels, demons, ghosts, vampires, and other various nightmarish creatures invented by the idiot masses organized themselves in his mind. He flipped through a mental filing cabinet for this information, that he realized now he had only saved because he thought it might be useful someday, which meant that maybe a tiny part of him believed it could be true.

He reacquainted himself with the material he needed, and reminded himself that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Marching back into the sitting room, he placed a cup of tea in front of Castiel and sat opposite him, quietly observing him.

Castiel picked up the beverage, took a sip, and made a face like a child does when it tries something new and doesn't like it. He set the drink back down.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

Castiel looked a little surprised at the newly calmed tone of Sherlock's voice, and said rather sheepishly, "I guess I'm just used to coffee."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and replied, "How American of you. Tell me, are all angels American?"

Castiel regarded him quizzically. "No, it depends on the vessel. The vessel can be any human, anywhere."

Nodding as though he understood, Sherlock said, "You mentioned you needed my help with something. About the apocalypse. Are we talking electromagnetic pulse apocalypse, zombie apocalypse, or the good old Biblical apocalypse?"

For having such subtle facial expressions, Castiel portrayed the "I don't need your sass right now" face very well. "Biblical. I could explain it to you, but it's much easier to do it this way." Castiel stood and crossed over to Sherlock. With the slightest apprehension, he gently touched his fingers to Sherlock's temples.

Sherlock was surprised to find he enjoyed the angel's warm touch, and closed his eyes to it. An explosion of information happened behind them.

In less than a second, Castiel drew away and Sherlock knew a wealth of information about the Winchester brothers, the supernatural, and the impending apocalypse. He knew about the seals and Lilith, and, oddly enough, about Castiel's conflicted emotions toward the one called Dean, which Sherlock found very similar to what he felt toward his John.

Sherlock took a deep breath and Castiel stared down at him inquiringly, waiting for his response.

Sherlock met his gaze and said, simply, "I have questions." He felt euphoric, higher than the highs of his drug days, like the hard drive of his brain was blissfully overclocked.

"Of course," Castiel replied, and sat back down across from him.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "Why."

"Why what?"

"Why me."

Castiel looked down at his hands and hesitated before he responded. "I, for lack of a better term, hacked into some conversations other angels were having. I've heard a lot about you. The brilliant man. You solve crimes, save people, but you keep yourself distant. You're a soldier."

"Do not mistake me for a soldier, angel. Soldiers have higher powers, and I answer to no power but myself."

Castiel smirked. "They also call you the man who wants to be a god."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "The Winchesters. Why can't they do this task, which you have yet to mention, by the way."

Sighing, Castiel replied, "Dean failed." Castiel looked tortured by this sentiment. "He couldn't play by Death's rules. To get Death's ring, he asked Dean to be Death for one day, but he couldn't do it. He removed the ring before his time was up. Death gave him another chance though, I think simply because he was enjoying his time away. He told Dean if we can find someone else to be Death for a day, we can have the ring." Castiel looked at his watch. "Will you help us? Can you be Death for a day?"

"Why should I?"

Castiel looked at Sherlock like he was an idiot, an expression he had only previously gotten from John. "Because Lucifer will take over the world and kill everyone."

"And why should I care?"

Castiel actually rolled his eyes, frustration boiling in him, an emotion that Sherlock knew from his newly implanted memories that Castiel reserved specifically for Dean Winchester. Sherlock was almost complimented by this knowledge.

"What part of 'kill everyone' isn't a big deal to you? You know what, just... give me a moment."

In the blink of an eye and a flutter of invisible wings, he was gone.

Sherlock had time to look around the flat and stand up before Castiel was back, with a ruggedly handsome man in tow.

"--ammit, Cas! Where the hell--" The man ripped his leather-clad arm away from the angel and looked around before his glance fell on Sherlock. His eyes widened, he smiled and said, " _Heyyy._ Dean Winchester," then held out his hand for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock took it. "Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure."

Dean looked Sherlock up and down briefly before shaking his head slowly and saying, "The pleasure's _all_ mine."

The room was silent a moment as Sherlock and Dean's hands lingered and they stared at one another intensely.

Castiel broke the silence. "We're at 221B Baker Street, London, UK," he said through gritted teeth.

When Sherlock looked at him, his face was a shade redder than it had been. He looked like a very angry, very jealous angel.

Dean turned to look at Castiel skeptically. "I thought..."

"What?" Castiel asked, still terse.

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, I guess I just never saw myself as a world traveler. Thought you needed a passport and all that..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

Considering he was in the company of a rather protective, seemingly terrifying angel and his boyfriend, Sherlock chose to bite his tongue against the slew of condescending remarks that threatened to escape him.

Castiel looked at Dean like he was a simple, pretty little thing, and Sherlock yet again noticed a parallel between their relationship and his with John. "We don't have much time. Dean, give Sherlock the ring. I can't touch it."

Dean reached into his jeans pocket and procured a large ring, then handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock took it carefully, examining it. It looked to be 24 karat gold with a large onyx inlay. Provided no one put it on before buying it, Sherlock guessed he could easily sell it for £25,000. "I didn't agree to this yet, you know," Sherlock stated, never taking his eyes off the ring.

"You will," Castiel replied.

Sherlock broke his gaze away from the ring and eyed Castiel with consternation. "How are you so sure?"

Castiel stepped closer to Sherlock so that their noses almost touched. Although Castiel was the smaller man, suddenly he seemed to take up all the space in the room. He looked into Sherlock's eyes as though he was searching for something in them. "Three reasons," he said slowly. "First, you're curious. You've been trapped for a lifetime in this paradigm of reality. It's _boring_ isn't it, Sherlock? Always knowing the answer because your world is just so _predictable_. This is different. This is new. Second, Dr. Watson. You would do anything to ensure his safety. You could give a rat's ass about yourself and the rest of the world, but he's the only one worth fighting for, isn't he? Third, this." He reached up and touched his fingers to Sherlock's temples again.

This time it was too much to bear. This was an overdose. Every neuron in his brain was firing and he lived an eternity in this moment, in utter agony, feeling, thinking, seeing, hearing everything in the universe at once. He distantly recognized that he had dropped to his knees and was screaming.

"Cas!" Dean shouted.

Castiel's touch immediately ceased, leaving Sherlock breathless and trembling. And, he noted, inexplicably turned on.

"What the hell, Cas?! What was that for?" Dean crossed in front of Castiel to help Sherlock to his feet. "Are you okay? I'm sorry, man. I swear, I can't take this guy anywhere." Dean's attempt at levity was lost on the two men, who were now staring daggers at one another. Dean looked back and forth at both of them, "Cas?"

Castiel broke his gaze with Sherlock. "He still doubted me, Dean. I needed to make him understand who I am and..." He trailed off, suddenly looking very tired, avoiding saying, "and I needed to threaten him to light a fire under his ass." "I showed him a glimpse of my true form so that he would understand. You can take it, can't you, Sherlock? With your _brilliant_ mind and all?"

Sherlock wondered if all angels would grate on him as much as this one did, the arrogant sod. He wasn't sure when a seemingly amicable request turned into a complex love triangle, a bout of torture, a plethora of personal insults, a sense of competition, and, above all, undulating and unwanted sexual tension, but he decided to reinforce the padlock on his mental closet labeled "Secret Gay Crushes and their Complicated Emotional Consequences" and opt for anger instead. Sherlock advanced toward the angel, and he wasn't sure whether he was going to hit him or kiss him, but before he could decide, Dean stepped between them once again.

"Whoa whoa whoa. Let's not play this game right now. We have an apocalypse to stop and no one here has time for a round of Punch or Fuck." He put his hand on Sherlock's chest. "Look, man, you don't gotta do this if you don't want. There's a big world out there and I'm sure we can find another person who is as... _well-regarded_ as you at the big water cooler in the sky."

Sherlock relaxed, took a step back, smirked his famous, arrogant _I win_ grin at the two men in his flat, and slipped on the ring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock becomes acquainted with Death and completes his first assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support on the first chapter! I hope you like this one just as much! :)

Nothing happened.

Sherlock was still in his flat, staring at the now befuddled angel and his beautiful boy toy staring back at him but not, apparently, seeing.

Dean looked over at Castiel. "Well, problem solved. The psychopath'll deal with Death and we can get Lucifer back in his box and all is well with the world, right Cas?"

Cas was still staring intently at the place where Sherlock had once stood, like he _knew_ Sherlock was there but had no visual evidence. "High-functioning sociopath," he mumbled.

"What?" Dean asked.

"He's not a psychopath. He's a high-functioning sociopath," Cas replied, turning to Dean. As usual, they were standing too close, and for a moment they just looked at each other, Dean breaking eye contact only to steal a look at Cas' lips, but then took a step back and the moment was over.

Dean shrugged in a non-committal way and looked around the room at everything but Cas. "Whatever you say, man." He turned back to the angel and smirked. "What, you got a thing for him or something? Should I be jealous?"

Although Cas' facial expression didn't change, his cheeks turned slightly pink. Sherlock wasn't sure if the response was due to the truth that Cas did in fact find Sherlock attractive, or at Dean's ambiguously jovial allusion to their relationship. Perhaps both, Sherlock surmised. For a divine being, he thought, Cas was on some levels very easy to read. "No," Cas replied, sternly, _and a little too quickly_ , Sherlock thought. "We need to be getting back."

"But I thought we could explore Lon--" Dean complained as Castiel took him and they disappeared. Sherlock noted that this time Castiel grabbed Dean's hand instead of his elbow.

Sherlock was at a loss for what to do next. He couldn't take off the ring, though he was tempted to end this madness and get back to sulking about John in his happy little reality where humans killed other humans over _emotions_ and because of _mental disorders_ with tangible objects like guns and knives and poison. There was a little voice in his mind, though, the same one that led him to drugs, that said, simply, _what if?_

Best not delve too far into the intellectual semantics, Sherlock thought, _though what to do next?_ He was tempted to go find homicides, introduce the dying to the dead, or perhaps he should--

" _Ahem_." Twice in one day, Sherlock had been snuck up on. This had to be a record, he thought.

He turned around to find a thin old man with young eyes and a short brunette woman at his side.

"Ah, my replacement," said the old man with a flourishing gesture, and crossed the room to sit in Sherlock's chair. The woman remained still.

"And you are?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

The man rolled his eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, I daresay I probably can't say a word to you that you don't already know. Don't play games with me. I am Death, although for today, you are Death. So you may call me Steve." He stood and picked up the skull on the mantel. "Friend of yours?" he asked, turning to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled tight-lipped, suddenly eager to complete his task. He admitted to himself that he was incredibly intrigued by the novelty of the situation.

"It looks like your new friends left you for the time being. Pity, I do love my frequent chats with Dean." He finished inspecting the skull and sat it back down, giving his full attention to Sherlock. "We have a few terms and conditions to go over before you begin. Please, have a seat."

Sherlock took John's chair and Death sat back down in Sherlock's. The woman in the corner remained silent and vigilant.

Sherlock sat and steepled his fingers under his chin, elbows on his knees, staring solemnly at his guest.

"I'm sure the angel gave you a sufficient amount of information, although I am here to reiterate it. The rules are simple: 24 hours in full you must wear the ring, or" he looked at his watch, "23 hours and 52 minutes now. During that time, you will be taken to people who are dying and you will be introducing them to the afterlife, wherever that may be. You may not intervene in any way. If you cannot complete your duties as Death, the deal is off. If you take off the ring, the deal is also off. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded. "I understand."

"Good." Death smiled and stood. "With that, I leave you with your guide, Tessa. Should you need anything, don't hesitate to deal with it yourself." With a sly grin, he vanished.

Sherlock turned to Tessa. When he met her eyes, the world shifted, and when he looked around again, he was in a dark alley.

"Where are--"

"Shh," replied Tessa, cutting him off.

A blond girl dashed right by him and Sherlock jumped back. A man wearing all black and cloaked in a hood was following closely behind her before tackling her to the ground. Sherlock heard a dull thud as her head hit the pavement and her movements slowed.

The man started pulling down her pants until she was completely exposed.

Sherlock made a move to run toward the man and pummel him to death before Tessa grabbed his arm and refrained him. "No interfering," she reminded him.

The man moved to unfasten his own pants as the girl began stirring again.

He pumped his dick three times to get it hard and moved toward the exposed woman, who was now beginning to struggle and shout again. "Help me! Please someone help me!"

Sherlock clenched his fists at his sides and gritted his teeth, reminding himself that this was to prevent the apocalypse and that everyone dies, some sooner than others and for more horrible reasons, and that he devoted his life to bringing justice to the wrongly deceased. He memorized the man perfectly so that he could avenge this woman's death by proving her murder and identifying the assailant as soon as his 24 hours were up.

The man lifted his hand to give her another blow to the head, sneering, "Shut up, you bitch!" but that was all the leeway she needed to turn on her side and crack her elbow across his jaw.

He fell sideways, hand at his face, dazed.

She sat upright and hastily pulled a switchblade out of her pocket.

Without hesitation, she scrambled onto her knees, grabbed the man's hair and yanked up, exposing his neck. She dove the knife straight into his throat and pulled it back out, blood splattering her face.

"You'll never be able to hurt anyone again, you fucker," she said through clenched teeth, and spat in his face.

The man, now holding his neck and making horrific gurgling noises, fell onto his back, angrily trying to grab the woman with his other hand. Blood flowed down his front and through his fingers, and his eyes started losing focus.

The woman stood, pulling her pants back up and folding her knife. She stepped between his legs and gave him a swift kick in the testicles. He could only stir and moan in response.

Giving him one last disgusted look, she ran back out of the alley the way she came.

The whole ordeal lasted less than three minutes.

"Well. That certainly didn't go as I expected," Sherlock said, staring at the man who was squirming and gurgling on the ground, the pool of blood around him almost touching Sherlock's shoes. "What now?" he asked, looking at Tessa.

"Touch him," she replied, nodding toward the man.

 Sherlock was silent a moment. "I think I'll just let him wait it out a few moments longer."

"That's not necessary," the reaper said. Sherlock looked at her. "He'll be going to a place that's a lot worse than this."

Sherlock nodded, then stepped over to the man writhing in agony. Looking him up and down analyzing what he would think of this murder had he not been around to see it, he finally bent over and touched the man's forehead.

He was suddenly standing at Sherlock's side, looking down at his own body. "Wow," was all he said.

Sherlock looked at him. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, a racial mix that Sherlock couldn't put his finger on, possibly Polynesian. He looked scared, and sad, and had that little glint in his eye that Sherlock only ever saw in particularly violent people.

Sometimes John had that glint and it scared him. He was truly unaware what John was capable of.

Tessa looked at him and smiled, took his hand, and they disappeared, leaving Sherlock in the alley with the body.

He walked out of the alley to look around. He was on a busy street with old, dilapidated, abandoned buildings. Down a block were a dozen neon signs of bars and the sounds of music and laughter. A church tower in the distance rang nine times and a cargo train nearby sounded its horn.

"America," he said to himself. "Obviously."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock begins to feel the emotional burden of being Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for how dark this chapter is. It'll get better, I promise.

Tessa reappeared beside Sherlock, staring into the urban abyss in front of them. "One down," she said solemnly. "Infinity to go."

Taking his hand in hers, Sherlock blinked and they were in a darkened hospital room. Upon further inspection and noting the lack of medical equipment, he realized they were in hospice.

An elderly woman was in a bed in the center of the room, thin and sallow, eyes unseeing, breathing ragged breaths. She was surrounded by a dozen members of what looked to be her family. They all sat in silence waiting for the time to come.

Sherlock walked over to the woman and looked down at her. She looked directly at him, although no one else in the room could see him. With the slightest of movements, she nodded, and smiled a wanly, a gesture Sherlock took to mean, "I'm ready."

He reached down and gently touched her hand.

She let out one last deep breath and did not take another.

The woman holding her other hand started to weep, but the newly deceased elderly woman stood behind her and stroked her hair. She bent down to kiss her on the forehead, then went around the room doing the same for the rest of her family, giving her final goodbyes.

Finally, she approached Sherlock and smiled at him, nodding slightly, then walked over to Tessa, who took her by the hand and disappeared.

 _This isn't so bad_ , Sherlock thought. _Just 23 more hours of ending the suffering of the dying_. _Manageable._

Tessa returned and touched his shoulder, and Sherlock was in the backseat of a moving vehicle. A Dodge Neon, and one not well cared-for, Sherlock noted as he kicked through numerous fast food bags that had been haphazardly discarded in the back.

The driver was on the left side. _Still in America_ , Sherlock thought.

There was a textbook next to him titled _Abnormal Psychology_. He would have been able to concentrate on additional details if the music in the car hadn't been blaring an obnoxious tune sung by what sounded to be a whiny prepubescent boy.

The girl in front of him was on her mobile, screaming at someone on the other end and crying.

Sherlock realized they were going much, much too fast for an American country road. What looked to be endless amounts of cornfields zoomed by them.

"What do you mean ' _calm down_ '? I _am_ calm! And if I'm not calm it's your fault! You prick! I can't believe you would do this to me. _I thought you loved me!_ " Another bout of sobs shook her. She sniffled and spoke quieter, "I'm fine, babe. I promise. I only had two beers. And some guy bought me a shot. Are you jealous?" Her voice rose again, "I hope you're jealous, you sick fuck!"

Sherlock figured out from the dangerous swerving on the narrow road what was about to happen. He sighed, and looked out the window.

"I love you babe, I'm so sorry." She wept for a moment and her head dropped. They swerved sharply to the left and her head snapped up. "Oh fu--"

They collided with an oncoming car, the driver's side hitting the other car's driver's side. The girl wasn't wearing her seatbelt, and watching her fly through her front windshield was an image that Sherlock would hope he could later delete.

Surprisingly, he and Tessa didn't move an inch. He tensed his body, prepared for the impact, but none came.

Suddenly he and Tessa were standing over the broken bloody body of the girl, who was propped up by a young man with a newly formed gash in his forearm. Other than that, he looked to be intact, although his car, a red Chevy Cobalt, had surely seen better days.

The girl's phone was on the ground beside her and the man picked it up. On the other end was a frantic, "Hello? Hello? Babe, what happened? Babe are you okay? Please talk to me. Oh my god please talk to me."

"I'm sorry," said the young man holding the girl. "I need to call 911. I... I don't think she's going to make it."

"Where are you?" Sherlock heard on the other end.

The man told him their location. He hung up and dialed 911, and with a shaky voice described the situation.

The girl's right arm was wrapped completely behind her and her leg was bent at an impossible angle. Sherlock had seen many bodies in many states of horror, decomposition, meticulous limb removal, but one of the worst images he had ever laid eyes on was in front of him right now, for the right side of the girl's skull had been completely crushed. Her breaths were ragged and she was convulsing from shock, eyes staring into an impossible distance.

Sherlock reached down, touched her arm, and when he stood to turn and look at her, she stared on in horror at the image she was seeing. Sherlock crossed into her line of sight so that she wouldn't have to see her broken body on the pavement.

She had long curly brown hair, and her face was round, covered in freckles. She looked so young, Sherlock thought.

Looking up at him, she asked, "What happened?"

He found himself unable to speak, at war with himself on whether he should give the full truth, including gory details, or if he should listen to the half of him that John had cultivated, the one with tact, that said perhaps more information is not always better.

He looked down at his hands. "It was... an accident," he replied, not meeting her gaze.

"Where am I going?" She didn't look sad. Just curious.

He hated saying this, but "I don't know," was all he could honestly reply. "Somewhere better. You'll like it there." He met her eyes and attempted the warmest smile he could muster, although his chest was starting to feel tight, his chin was trembling, and he could feel his eyes begin to water. He had to turn away.

Tessa approached the girl and took her to a better place.

The young man waited patiently, rocking the girl and singing to her in a lovely baritone the song Sherlock recognized as "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen.

Murders, suicides, crimes... Sherlock could tolerate those. They had already happened, and it couldn't be helped. All there was left to do was tidy up the loose ends, solve the mystery. Give closure to loved ones and prevent the perpetrator from doing it again.

This, though, Sherlock thought. This was watching death as it happened. An innocent bystander, able to help but remaining motionless, silent, invisible. Tearing people away from the middle of their lives, or in this case, the beginning.

Sherlock wasn't sure he could tolerate another 22 hours of this.

He blinked and wiped at his eyes as a soft touch fell on his shoulder.

When he opened his eyes, he was blinded by the sun.

They were in the desert.

There was gunfire in the distance. The sounds of screaming were all around.

 _Definitely_ not _America this time_ , Sherlock thought.

He closed his eyes because he knew what he was about to see when he opened them. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't a soldier. He knew a soldier. He loved a soldier. He didn't think he could bear the sight of them, scattered about like broken pieces of a vase, limbs missing and pools of blood and nothing but fear and agony and tragedy all around.

He opened his eyes. They were in a crater that was still smoking. The number of bodies... no, _people_ , Sherlock corrected, soon to be bodies with one touch from him, was astounding. He fell to his knees.

"Tessa," he began breathlessly, "I... I can't. I can't do this."

Tessa combed her fingers through Sherlock's hair consolingly. "Sherlock," she smiled down at him as though all the peace in the Universe filtered through her. "You have to take them from this pain. All of them, they're going to paradise. It is their time. It is written. Bring them home."

Sherlock took a deep breath and stood, following Tessa from person to person, touching them and taking them away. Some were being helped by medical staff. Some were alone, screaming, or crying, or twitching, or writhing. Some of them were missing fingers, toes, arms, legs, faces. Sherlock would never be able delete this from his memory.

Finally they approached a young blond man with a large piece of shrapnel buried in his chest. He was being held by a taller, thin, brunette man who was sobbing and kissing the blond man's forehead. Sherlock could see only see he and John.

It was a mirage, he knew. A delusion. But it was effective in stopping him in his tracks.

He couldn't breathe.

The taller man stroked the other man's hair and rocked him back and forth, telling him he'd be okay. The blond man, now conscious, reached up with a bloody hand, stroked the other man's cheek and smiled.

They kissed.

Sherlock didn't know when he had started crying, but he could barely see through the tears in his eyes when he reached down and caressed the blond man's face, whispering, "I'm sorry."

He fell onto the ground and held himself in a fetal position, waiting for Tessa to take him to his next hell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock's duties as Death become too much to bear when John Watson gets involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film referred to in this chapter is of course Shaun of the Dead, in which Martin Freeman plays Yvonne's boyfriend, Declan.

A tear trickled down the bridge of Sherlock's nose as the world shifted again, and when he opened his eyes, he was staring at the fireplace of a very familiar room.

He sat up. _Home. Finally._ He felt so relieved that he was unable to catch his breath, and wanted more than anything to fall asleep in the sheets of his own bed and wake up tomorrow and see John off to the surgery and pretend to be apathetic and then text him his random thoughts throughout the day and complain about being bored. Then John would come home and bring him take-away while they watched crap telly and John would complain about how Sherlock didn't eat enough, then he would finish Sherlock's food and they would both be very happy.

He so badly wanted his comparatively normal life back that it took him a moment to realize that being in his own flat while wearing the ring was very, very bad news.

He looked at Tessa. "No," he said breathlessly to her. "It can't be. It's not Sunday. Is it Sunday?"

She just swallowed and turned away from him with a look of remorse.

Sherlock heard someone ascending the stairwell. From the cadence of the steps and the slow speed indicating a heavy burden, a suitcase, he knew it was John.

The door opened and John set his stuff aside, then took off his jacket. The flat was dark. "Sherlock!" He shouted into the empty room, checking his phone. "I'm home!" He looked puzzled at his mobile, as though he had expected several texts from Sherlock by now, then put it back in his pocket. "Welcome home, John," he said quietly to himself, with a hint of both irritation and disappointment in his voice. He looked around at the flat and sighed.

Sherlock approached him, stood closer than he would have if he knew John could see him, or feel him, or know he was even there. "Welcome home, John," he said, barely above a whisper. He reached up to fix a stray piece of hair the wind had blown out of place on John's forehead, but then thought better of it, and let his hand fall to his side.

John went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Sherlock turned on Tessa, suddenly frantic with anger. "I won't do this. I don't know what your plan is but I won't let it happen. I would sooner burn in hell for all eternity than let anyone lay a finger on John Watson."

Tessa stood her ground and stared back at Sherlock with the same ferocity that he stared at her. "It's not up to me, Sherlock. I have no control over this. It's just the way it is."

"It can't be. I won't let it. I refuse."

Before Tessa could respond, there was a crash in the kitchen. Sherlock ran to look.

The crash was the kettle dropping to the floor. Sherlock ran into the room in enough time to see John whirl around and block the attack of a small man in a ski mask who had been apparently hiding in their kitchen. He was brandishing what appeared to be a machete, and he had John cornered.

John deferred the first blow and ducked out of the next swing to his head, barreling forward into the man so that he fell backward into the refrigerator. He stabbed the knife forward and John sidestepped it, delivering a blow to the man's left knee. Only briefly faltering, he gained his balance and pushed off of the refrigerator toward John, slicing through the air multiple times, and John dodged each one, finally falling back to the opposite wall where the man stabbed forward. John sidestepped him again and the knife stuck into the wall. John took the opportunity to grab the handle with the man as he pulled, and when the knife came out, John elbowed him in the face to the sound of a loud _crack!_ that was the bridge of the man's nose. With the knife in hand, John turned it around and swung the butt of it toward his skull, making contact and knocking him out. He fell to the floor with a thud.

Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh of relief before realizing that no one had died yet, and thus the tussle wasn't over.

John set the machete down and took his mobile from his pocket to dial 999. He made the mistake of turning away from the man on the floor momentarily, and in the time it took John to say, "221--" the man was up with lightning speed, grabbed the machete from the table and raised it at John's back.

As John turned around at the sound of the movement, phone in hand and mouth agape, staring up at the blade coming down at him, Sherlock stepped between the two men and took off the ring.

Sherlock blocked the blow, and in the man's brief hesitation at the sight of a person appearing out of thin air, he took the weapon out of his hand and stabbed him through the stomach with it. The masked man fell to his knees in a growing pool of his own blood.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, stunned. "Where did you... How did you... What--"

Before John could finish any one of the questions he began to pose, Sherlock turned around, placed his hands on either side of John's face and kissed him with the same level of passion he had seen between the two soldiers only an hour before.   

Stunned, John kissed him back with similar urgency, gripping the lapels of Sherlock's jacket and dragging him closer.

The kiss was messy, frantic, a battle of teeth and tongues and lips and uneven breaths. John tasted of tea and travel, a life that Sherlock never knew he wanted until he was forced into this unending, torturous game.

Sherlock didn't give a damn about the apocalypse, so long as he had John Watson at his side when it happened.

They broke apart, foreheads and noses touching, with lips bruised and ragged breath.  

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, still wary of letting go of John lest Death come back for him.

"I'm fine," John replied with a crooked smile. He stepped away from Sherlock. "Now will you please tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"

Sherlock noted that John didn't look scared or even frazzled, but he did look like he just had a good snog, hair all tussled and cheeks pink, grinning like an idiot, and not at all like a random ninja had tried to kill him in his own kitchen just a few minutes ago.

"Well, in two words, the apocalypse," Sherlock replied. He walked into the sitting room and began to pace.

John took a seat in his chair. He scoffed. "I hope you're referring to the zombie apocalypse. You know I was an extra in a film about that once?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked up, "Really?" He waved his hand dismissively and continued. "If I was Death and I prevented a death from happening that was meant to occur, I can only imagine there's some type of... imbalance to adjust for. But what would that be? What could happen? Surely the apocalypse couldn't come _sooner_ because of it, could it?"

"Excuse me, you were Death? What are you on about? Are you doing drugs again?" John asked.

Sherlock stopped to look at him, "What? No. That's ridiculous." He resumed pacing, then stopped again to look at John, "That's it! He's an angel right? I could just... pray to him, in a sense, right?"

John looked truly perplexed. "I'm sorry. Who's an angel? Pray to--"

Before John could finish, Sherlock had crossed to the middle of the room and shouted at the ceiling, "CASTIEL! There is an urgent matter regarding the apocalypse right now and I need your assistance! Please get your scrawny, sarcastic angel arse down here!"

John crossed the room to stand by Sherlock and look up at the ceiling too. "Wh--"

"I'm not scrawny," said a deep monotone voice behind them.

John spun around and, before Sherlock could stop him, swung his fist straight across the angel's jaw.

Like being hit with the violin, Castiel didn't even flinch.

"Is attacking people some sort of British greeting I don't understand?" Cas asked Sherlock.

John shook out his hand in pain. "I think he broke my hand!" he exclaimed.

Cas scrutinized him. "No, I believe _you_ broke your hand. On my face."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and introduced them. "John, this is Castiel the angel. Castiel, this is Dr. John Watson, my... colleague."

"Pleasure," John said, smiling painfully and nursing his hand.

"So this is John Watson," Castiel said, sizing him up. "I thought he'd be... taller."

"Thanks," John replied with the same pained, sarcastic expression. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get some ice for my hand. Tea?"

Sherlock replied with a curt, "Yes," while Cas replied simultaneously with a similarly terse, "No."

John looked between the two men and shook his head. "Well this is turning out to be an interesting evening," he said to himself, walking into the kitchen. He saw the bloody body on the linoleum and sighed, picking up the kettle from where he had dropped it. "A ninja attacked me, there's an angel in my sitting room, and now I have to dispose of a body in my kitchen. How could tonight get any stranger?"

"I would also like some tea please, if you could, thanks," said the calm voice of an old, thin man sitting at the kitchen table. "You must be John Watson. I'm Death, but you may call me Steve."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein nothing is really resolved, because Death is a dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me a year to update. :(

John brought out the tea on a tray, Death following at his heels.

“It looks like we have another guest,” John said sardonically, setting the tray down between the two chairs.

Steve greeted the two men warmly. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Then, looking at Sherlock, continued, “I’m impressed with you, Sherlock. You managed almost 4 hours. Of course, I am not impressed because I am I surprised you made it 4 hours, but because I honestly thought you would make it through the entire 24. It looks as though you have a heart after all, Mr. Holmes.”

John looked between the three men, confused. As a soldier-- and moreover, a friend of Sherlock Holmes-- he had learned when to speak up versus when to just sit down and enjoy the show. So he sat down in his chair, crossed his legs, and sipped on his cuppa in silence.

Steve continued, “I hope you enjoyed my little game.”

Eyes ablaze, Sherlock asked, “Sending a ninja to kill my… colleague was a game you thought I would enjoy?”

He laughed in response. “Oh, no, of course not. I didn’t send the ninja. I believe he was here to kill you completely of his own volition. So in effect, I saved your life.”

Sherlock stared absently at Steve while mapping out the probability of what _did_ happen versus what _could have_ happened, and how things would have changed if this bloody, sex-haired angel hadn’t barged in on him bemoaning John’s unexpected absence. Then again, maybe none of this would have happened if John hadn’t gone to bloody New Zealand either. The possibilities were endless.

Steve chuckled heartily, “Oh Sherlock Holmes, this has been fun. I was hoping Castiel here would pick up on the whisper of your name amongst the angels, knowing that you would be an excellent candidate to defy your own death, which would have never been on my docket were it not for what hadn’t yet transpired when you made the list in the first place. It’s a bit roundabout, isn’t it? Makes one wonder…” he trailed off. “Anyway, thank you both for the entertainment this evening. As a thank you gift, I give you my ring. However,” his eyes went dark as he gazed at Sherlock, “if you do manage to postpone the apocalypse, which is unlikely, I need my remaining 20 hours from you, to be taken at my choosing.”

So quickly forgetting the trauma he had just endured, Sherlock glared at Death and, voice low, replied, “The game is on.”

Both Death and Castiel disappeared in the same instant. Sherlock looked toward John and heaved a sigh, before feeling the fluttering of wings behind him again.

“--on’t _do_ that!” exclaimed Dean’s gruff voice.

Sherlock spun on his heel, facing the two men. “It’s good seeing you again, Dean,” Sherlock said with a sly smile, mostly to see Castiel get jealous.

Dean gave him a single nod of his head and a wink, replying, “Same to you, Mr. Tall Glass of Water.”

Castiel squared his jaw in response, before grumbling, “Just give Dean the damn ring, Holmes.”

Sherlock dragged it out of his pocket, not taking his gaze from the infinite green forest of Dean’s eyes, and placed it in his outstretched palm, letting his fingers linger for a moment too long.

John cleared his throat, jolting Sherlock and Dean out of their respective reveries.

His expression somewhere between a sneer and a pout, Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand roughly again, but before departing, told Sherlock, “If you’re not dead in a few days, that means we won,” and disappeared in a flutter of invisible wings.

 


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we finally make it to our well-deserved smut.

Sherlock awoke mid-afternoon the next day. Groggy, he sat up in bed and realized he felt... off.

He took this feeling to be something akin to an emotional hangover.

 _Emotions_ , he thought. _How asinine_.

He got up and went about showering and shaving and making coffee for himself because John had left for the surgery hours ago. He even made toast.

Once this was done, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table and realized he had nothing left to do.

No, that wasn't right. He had things to do, he just didn't want to do them. What was this feeling? It wasn't boredom really. When he gets bored, he wants something to do. Now, he didn't feel like doing anything at all.

Was this what it felt like to be... _depressed_?

The only thing that Sherlock wanted to do was sulk on the sofa until John got home and forced him to eat something and watch a terrible, predictable film.

Sherlock had been curled up in a ball on the couch for about an hour, mid-sulk, when he heard a ruffle of wings next to him. He didn't even look up.

Soft steps walked toward him and took a seat next to him on the sofa. The man's trenchcoat brushed the bottoms of Sherlock's feet, and they sat together in silence until Sherlock almost dozed off.

“I came to say that I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said softly in his gruff voice.

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“I spoke to Sam and Dean and they both told me that although what I did was out of necessity, it was still wrong to put you through that, and I should apologize. So here I am... apologizing. And I brought you a gift.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel set a violin on the table. It wasn’t just any violin, it was _his_ violin. The one he had crushed against the angel’s skull not 24 hours ago. He could tell based on the tiny knick at the top, from when he had dropped it upon first receiving it, nervous hands trembling when he put bow to strings. He wondered why the knick hadn't been fixed in the apparent reconstruction of the instrument.

Sherlock still said nothing.

After a moment, Cas sighed and stood up, but before he could vanish, Sherlock sat up quickly and said, “Wait.”

Cas turned around.

Sherlock stood, towered over the angel. “You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

Unafraid now, Sherlock looked at Cas as though he were just another easily readable human being. “Sam and Dean didn’t tell you to come back here. You returned of your own volition, and after a lengthy internal conflict about it. You’re beginning to feel human emotions, too many of them, and you don’t know how to handle them. You’ve lived centuries without being partial to anyone, yet here you are, a divine celestial being, apologizing to a human.” Sherlock stepped closer. They were inches away from each other. “You’ve begun toeing the line between angel and human. We don’t accept you here and they don’t accept you there, so where do you stand, angel?”

Castiel held his ground and didn’t speak.

Sherlock continued. “You’re planning something big. You act like the young star about to take over the old boss. You’re going to become God, aren’t you?”

Through gritted teeth, Cas said, “You don’t know that.”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh but I do. It’s written on your face. You’re more human than you think.”

Cas grabbed Sherlock by the t-shirt and dragged him down to eye-level with superhuman strength. “And you’re less.”

Suddenly, they both moved to close the small gap between them and ferociously began tearing at each other’s mouths. Sherlock had never been kissed this way, with so much anger and lust. He could barely keep up with what Sherlock only hoped was the maximum of the man’s repressed passions. Although his body had been through a lot over the years, he wasn’t sure it could handle being fucked by an angel. He was more than happy to try, though.

Castiel’s hands were tangled in Sherlock’s hair, gently pulling, teeth biting Sherlock’s lips, and tongues battling against each other. Sherlock couldn’t breathe; he was drowning in Castiel.

He briefly pulled away, breathless. “But what about Dean?”

“And what about John?” Castiel grabbed Sherlock by the waist and before he could take a breath to reply, they were suddenly in Sherlock’s bed, naked.

“Not gay,” Sherlock replied between frantic kisses. “...Probably,” he added, followed by, “Dean?”

“Not gay,” Castiel informed him, voice impossibly deep when filled with lust. “...Probably,” he also added.

Castiel made quick time putting Sherlock on his back and covering his body with searing kisses. Miraculously, he had procured a bottle of lubricant and was coating his fingers with it before Sherlock could wrap his head around what was happening. He slowly pushed a finger into him, and Sherlock moaned loudly, unexpectedly. As Castiel quickly and thoroughly worked him open, he pressed his palm to Sherlock’s head.

It was something between the steady stream of information he had first received about the Winchesters, and the agonizing overload of Castiel’s initial death threat. It put Sherlock just on the border of pleasure and pain, nirvana and torture. It drove him mad, and the combination of Castiel’s now three fingers in him made him blissfully lose control of his burdensome mind.

Sherlock barely registered that he began panting pleas of mercy, to please be filled with Castiel now, now, now. But then Castiel slowly entered him, and Sherlock felt maddeningly, beautifully complete.

He begged for harder. He begged for faster. He begged for mercy to Castiel who loomed above him, thrusting slowly but steadily into him, until Sherlock could feel the fiery passion in his stomach begin to bloom.

Castiel gripped Sherlock and started stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts, which became shorter and faster, Castiel’s breath coming out in huffs and gasps and hisses.

Sherlock’s body had become a temple of euphoria, and he prayed to Castiel for absolution.

They came together, Sherlock with a shout, and Castiel with a deep exhale, staying inside Sherlock for a moment longer before slowly pulling out of him.

He lay on his side next to Sherlock, who turned toward him, breathless, and entwined their legs and hands into a comfortable embrace. He felt a single, light brush of a feather on his shoulder, then became completely encompassed by a large set of powerful, invisible wings. He fell asleep inside their warm caress.

When Sherlock awoke hours later, Castiel was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so if you liked this fic, subscribe to my author page? I plan to start posting more. <3


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